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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 5, 2015 17:09:54 GMT
Chapter One: The Deal is Struck
17 July 2000
“Jesus Christ,” muttered the guard beside me at the door. He wore a black suit over what I can only assume to be a bullet-proof vest. On his pocket was stitched a P within a C within an O.
“What?” I asked, my arms crossed. Before me was a round table, and around it were perhaps a dozen business execs, discussing matters I wasn’t paid enough to listen to.
“I don’t think this much money has ever been assembled in one room.”
“I think you’re right. What are these guys’ net worths? Two, three hundred million? More?”
“Actually,” began the man who just entered. He had a strong jaw and dark hair, but his blue eyes were bright and intelligent. “That’s just me,” he said with a good-natured smirk.
He sat down at the only empty seat at the table.
“This meeting can now begin.” He swiveled his seat to face the wall behind him. He pulled a small remote from his suit jacket and clicked the largest button. The wall slid up and a television distanced itself from the far side of its alcove within the wall. It lit up to reveal blueprints for what appeared to be a force field.
“This is an energy repulsion field. Semipermeable from the outside and completely impermeable from the inside. In addition to Arkham City, I propose we build it on what used to be Raccoon City, Gunnison, Colorado, and Archipelago Muertes, off the coast of Costa Rica. That’s four different places we can put criminals with life sentences and no chance of parole, with plenty of space and no chance of escape.”
“Why are we even here, then? Isn’t the only entity you need represented the government?” queried an aging man, sucking air from an inhaler.
“No, because I want to propose something else that involves you quite a bit more.” Wayne clicked the button again, showing Omni Consumer Products’ latest policing robots, Stark Industries’ drones, velociraptor diagrams from InGen, and pictures of scenes from the hoax video of the former Channel 7 News anchorwoman of the results of the T-Virus.
“As representatives of your respective companies, I want you to decide by tomorrow whether or not you’d like to use these facilities to test your products. It is predicted by my experts that these places can be bought and that we can successfully introduce the entire population of United States life-without-parole inmates to these four places. All I would need is a single five billion dollar investment from your companies. There isn’t one of you who can’t handily spare five times that, and it would go one hundred percent towards these testing grounds.”
“And… what profit would come from investing in this medium rather than using our own testing grounds?” asked the representative of InGen, an aging Indian man wearing an extravagant mustache and a frown.
“You could see how your products will fare in a truly competitive market; of course, you can still use your own labs, but by the contract I’ve written-- which I’ve made copies of for each of you and your legal team-- at least thirty percent of all testing must be administered via this medium.”
Around the table, the executives picked up landlines from the table in front of them, faxing and calling their legal teams.
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 7, 2015 18:50:25 GMT
Chapter Two: Freddy's Dead
Fall 1999
“Freddy’s dead,” Maggie Burroughs said with a grin.
Not quite.
Freddy’s soul found its way to the depths of Hell, not a witty remark to be heard.
The only thing that died when Freddy’s body exploded was just that: Freddy’s corporeal form. This, in the eyes of the Springwood Slasher, gave him unending opportunity. His next and only step towards coming back to Springwood would be finding a way out of Hell.
Freddy, as suddenly as he’d been plunged into darkness, was resuscitated into light, albeit red light like in the Nightmare Realm he’d dragged so many into. He looked around, finding the setting familiar-- a large room filled with machinery and piping, but there was something new… chains hanging from all about. As he stepped tentatively into a clearing in the maze of metal, he saw something above him that stopped him in his tracks.
Suspended by hooks on chains was the form of a giant in a hockey mask. Stuck in the ground beneath him, at Freddy’s feet, was a machete, worn and rather dull from decades of use.
“The hell?” Freddy asked aloud as he felt the neutral gaze of the gargantuan figure above.
“Hell… indeed. It appears to me you’ve spent too little time here; taken too many deals with your companions the Dream Demons.” The voice was rich and deep and hearing it caused Freddy’s heart to beat just a bit faster.
“You, Frederick Charles Krueger, have overstayed your welcome in the world of the living. Your burning at the hands of Springwood should’ve been your end… but those Dream Demons thought otherwise.” From the red-tinged shadows clinging to the walls of the room and the machinery inside, stepped forward a tall, gaunt figure garbed in an all-black leather façade of what a holy man might wear. His skin was white, his eyes completely black, and pins were arranged in a grid like a net over his head.
Freddy’s next words were not quite as careful as they perhaps could’ve been.
“You know my name, eh? So that leads me to believe you know my work, especially on Elm Street? I am eternal; I am pain! Hell isn’t a match for me. It’s my very realm!” With his last statement, Freddy lifted his hands high as if conducting an orchestra, only to find his glove gone and his powers nulled.
“Pain?” The figure threw back his head and laughed a throaty, malevolent laugh, then abruptly returned its gaze to eye-level, advancing in long strides towards Freddy, speaking quickly and with great force, great intent put behind each word. “You know nothing of pain. Fire, blades, the snapping of the mind? Nothing compared to what you shall endure. Your realm is not Hell. Hell belongs to the Leviathan and the Leviathan alone! Your realm is dreams and nothing more. Figments of your imagination and theirs translated into their reality. Hell is yours perhaps in your dreams, but only there. Eternity, meanwhile,” the figure said in a bit lighter of a tone, “belongs to those who can wield it. It is the Leviathan’s greatest gift.”
Pinhead pulled Freddy’s glove from within the folds of his leather robe and put it on his hand, mesmerizing Freddy as he danced the blades here and there, finally stopping to press Freddy’s head against the wall, flick his hat off his head, and begin the process.
Chains shot through Freddy’s hands and feet from the wall he was leaning on, pulling him taut into a full spread-eagle position facing the figure. “I am the Priest. I am pain. I am eternal.” He dug Freddy’s forefinger blade into Freddy’s forehead while the burnt man screamed. The Priest began to slice vertically down his body, studying him as though fascinated.
The masked man merely looked on.
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 8, 2015 4:14:51 GMT
Chapters Three and Four: The Reveal and First Shipment
17 February 2003
The conglomerate that first met in 2000 was reconvened as Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark stood next to that same television hidden within the wall. Both were grinning ecstatically as they waited for all to be seated.
“Gentlemen and lady,” Stark said, nodding at Mrs. Yutani, whom had begun representing Yutani Corporation at these meetings because of their importance, instead of their company representative, “Mr. Wayne and I would like to unveil possibly the greatest single invention of all time.” The television lit up and on it was a cylinder bathed in light.
“Teleportation,” Bruce spoke excitedly. “There will be teleportation available between the four points we’ve selected to be our testing facilities. There will be three teleportation stations in each area, one to every other area. Once we introduce the inmates, we will tell them all that if they break the teleportation systems, there won’t be anyone coming to fix them. That should provide adequate incentive to leave them intact.”
“This, folks, is where some of your money’s been going. I slash we always make good,” Tony intoned. “The rest is going into this.” He clicked a button on his remote, and there were live camera feeds to Archipelago Muertes, Arkham City District, Gunnison, and the four craters of Raccoon City. Around them were glowing blue hemispheres divided into hexagons.
“The force fields are operational. Two doors lead into each dome from either side. This is where new prisoners will be deposited for listing. Organized here, then let right into the wild. In cases of mass relocation such as the initial fillings, though, the outside wall of the force field is permeable. From the inside, completely indestructible.” Bruce grinned. No more Joker, no more Bane. No villains, only small-timers. I can deal with that.
***
13 March 2003
The truck myself and three others were chained to the wall inside of rattled around as it made its way down the avenue. I could hear cars to either side-- a crowd. We were making frequent stops, assumedly at lights. We hit a pothole. All three of us swore like sailors as we each were mashed against the chain loops bolted to the walls of the back of the truck. The only thing they hadn’t chained together were our lips. I suppose that’s why the meatwall to my right saw fit as to initiate a conversation.
“I hear Joker’s gettin’ together a posse,” the man next to me said. He was imposing as anything I’d ever seen. He was missing some teeth in the front and had an incredibly forward brow, with a strong jaw and full beard to boot. His muscles were gripped by the orange jumpsuit that was so loose on me.
“I’d throw my lot in with Penguin. At least he makes some fuckin’ sense. You piss off Two-Face and there’s about a fifty-fifty chance you live, you piss off Penguin you get at least a fair deal. You ain’t even got to piss off Joker. That fucker’s cold. He’ll kill you for no reason, I hear,” I heard myself responding. Why, though? I didn’t belong here. I got a life sentence for one lousy murder. So what if I left the spoon on-property? Not like she couldn’t have stolen my spoon. That bitch. I hated her so much. Glad she’s dead. Fuckers get off on mass murder, I’ve seen.
“I bet Two-Face is the best boss to have. I’ve always had good luck in casinos--” started a guy I only knew as Raphael, whom when he’d entered Blackgate was brought in in full rich-boy dress: a suit, a tie, and a real fancy felt fedora.
“That don’t count, Raph, you make your own. That’s why you’s here,” said the first man.
“That’s irrelevant,” replied Raph with a tone of intense distaste. “I say if you can skew the odds, go for it.”
“Talk about skewed odds-- how is it that all three of us are locked up, but that fucker that killed something like-- thirty kids?-- in the last twenty years over at Camp Crystal Lake ain’t seen any jailtime? Only askin’ ‘cause that dome ‘round Arkham is big enough that they got the forest to the south-- Camp Crystal Lake’s inside, I’ve been told.” My eyes drifted from Meatwall to Raph and back again.
“I never got into the whole ‘Jason Voorhees’ thing. Not convincing. I think it’s a whole team of people-- at least three,” Raph chatted, shaking his head.
“I’d have thought something like that, weren’t for the fact that he was in New York itself once, yeah?” drawled Meatwall.
“Oh aye?” mused Raph.
“Yeh. Quite a sight, I been told.”
The truck began to make more frequent stops than the ones I’d deduced were at stoplights. Must be we’re on line for dropoff.
I felt the truck backing up and then it stopped. All was silent for a moment, save for the beeping of other trucks. As the doors opened, I finally noticed something I’d missed in the dusky darkness of the inside of the truck-- there was someone else in there with us, chained just behind the cab on the wall.
The door opened and two men almost as burly as Meatwall stepped past me to bring him outside. It was only then I realized that the man whom had passed me was Michael Corvin-- THE Michael Corvin. The one they’d been chasing nearing a decade ago. I’d heard at some point they’d caught him but I had no idea he’d been at Blackgate… or even Arkham.
“Holy shit,” I managed to have time to say before Corvin spoke.
“Where’s Selene?” he pleaded. The guy outside with the clipboard merely checked off his name from the list in his hand and motioned for him to move along, the two men holding him pushing him roughly through a massive blue wall made of hexagons that must’ve been the new Arkham facility.
He pounded against it, his eyes sorrowful and his fists raging. Finally it blew him back and away from the wall and he collapsed in a crumpled heap.
All I heard for the rest of the day, echoing in the confines of my mind were his cries of “I know you know where she is! She was with me! WHERE’S SELENE?!”
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 9, 2015 1:28:09 GMT
Chapters Five, Six, and Seven: Entrapment, Observation, and Manhunt
25 March 2003
“We’re nearing Camp Crystal Lake,” Will observed after reading a sign that said “Camp Crystal Lake Turnoff, 2 Miles.”
“Good. I don’t know how much longer he’ll be asleep,” Kia said, glancing worriedly at the unconscious form of Jason.
“Okay, now I’ve just got to drag Freddy out of the dream world and we can get them going at it. Then we can escape,” Lori recounted aloud, repeating the necessary steps in her head.
“Maybe not so fast,” Will disagreed. The van came to a stop before a massive wall of blue hexagons. “What… is this?”
Linderman’s eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to remember. Then he jolted upright and snapped his fingers.
“It must be that project that all those bigwig companies are working on. They put prisoners in these domes-- they’re force fields-- and then they just leave them there. I… don’t remember what part all the companies had in it, but there were like ten or more that pitched in.”
“Can we get through it in the van?” Lori questioned.
“I think so. Take it really slowly, though, Will.”
Will inched the van forward as they passed through the force field. Blue light invaded the van as it somehow shone through the walls. They successfully got the van inside, but Linderman had them stop. “I just… have to check something. Go on ahead. I’m going to see if we can make it out of the dome.” I guess when they covered the new Arkham section of the city, the camp must’ve been inside the radius.
He touched his hand to the wall of light and it felt solid like a regular wall, but it was hot and it hummed with power. He slapped his hand against it. Not even a ripple.
“We’re not going to be able to get back out… I guess we’ll have to find an entrance along the rim,” he muttered to himself as he turned and found the van had already left.
*****
“Oi-- there’s a van comin’ this way. I didn’t know they had cars in here,” Meatwall puzzled, pushing the tattered blinds out of the way as he got a good look at it.
“That’s none of our business,” Raph observed, not moving from his seat on the couch left behind in this shitty little rundown cabin.
“Yeah, Raph’s right. Let some other fuck deal with them,” I agreed, nodding. “There’s got to be what, twenty of our Arkham friends here, dotted around the cabins? They’ll deal with them.”
“Shit, boys. They just crashed into that cabin over there-- shit, it’s on fire. The shit made that happen?” Meatwall said in disbelief. “I think we should at least take a look.”
“You’re looking, aren’t you?” Raph joked, then chuckled to himself.
“I’m lookin’ alright… I’m just not sure I believe my eyes,” Meatwall breathed. Suddenly he ducked and an instant later the windows shattered.
“-WILL PAY!” I heard. I felt heat coming from outside, and not just from the flaming cabin across the center of camp. I stood, walking slowly over to the blown-out window, and I watched, mouth agape, as a man clad in yellow and black, his form wreathed in orange flames, landed punch after sickeningly crunching punch on the face and body of a man covered in white body paint, with strange markings covering him.
“Is this truly the best you have?” laughed the painted man, though from the sound of the other’s punches, he was not going to last much longer.
A scream from the burning cabin caught my attention, and then a disgruntled “What the fuck? Oh, shit.”
*****
Scorpion felt his blows land with satisfying thuds, and the symphony of breaking ribs was truly music to his ears. Yet he noticed his locale had changed. “Where have you brought me, sorcerer?” he demanded, gripping his chainspear with the fingers he wasn’t using to point at Quan Chi.
“Somewhere that a certain someone will be quite interested in seeing you.” With a laugh, Quan Chi opened a portal behind himself and stepped into it, disappearing as quickly as he’d teleported them both there.
“SORCERER!” roared Scorpion, flexing every muscle in rage, the flames surrounding him growing higher and hotter. He noticed something to his left: flames that weren’t his. Cooler flames, not hellfire. He tightened his grip on his chainspear and teleported inside the collapsing structure in a burst of flame. Inside he viewed a strange scene: three teenagers, with one boy collapsed and bleeding and two girls attempting to drag him outside, a hulking man in some sort of mask, and a man covered in burns in a green and red sweater. He noticed their weapons, as well-- a machete and a glove with knives tipping the fingers. Interesting, indeed. They looked as surprised to see him as he did them.
“What’s with the pajamas?” Freddy taunted, snickering.
“SILENCE!” Scorpion commanded, throwing his chainspear at the burnt man. “GET OVER HERE!”
The pointed end of the spear lodged itself in Freddy’s chest, and he exhaled sharply. Just after it landed, he felt a hard tug and he went flying into Scorpion’s waiting fist.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed, his nose badly bent and broken.
In his preoccupation, Scorpion didn’t realize the hulking man was upon him.
Jason knew those flames. They were one of the weapons of the Priest before Jason escaped. How he despised those flames. He felt them eating away at his soul whenever they touched him. That’s why he’d advanced quickly on the yellow-clad man, and had a hand about his neck, squeezing the life out of it while he had his grip.
Scorpion was lifted from the ground, and since he knew the giant had a reach advantage with his arm, hellfire coated his foot as he kicked up, connecting with his chin. As expected, he was dropped. He’d just unsheathed his swords from the scabbards on his back as he heard a voice not unlike the sorcerer’s. But it was somehow… more menacing. Both of his two adversaries started to back away from the voice’s source.
“What have we here?” the voice asked slowly. Scorpion turned to see a tall figure covered by a black robe. His head was covered in pins and his eyes were inky pools of black. “Not two, but three wretches undeserving of the life after death they’d been provided. The Cenobites will be overjoyed. Go now, run while you still can. Soon the rest of Hell’s Army will come, and you will endure a fate worse than any you’ve received before. It is only a matter…” he smiled, ushering them towards the woods, the lights of a city peeking above the trees more than a mile away, “of time.”
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 11, 2015 3:28:56 GMT
Chapters Eight and Nine: The Island from Below the Waves and Fine Print
30 September 1970
The sound of roaring water no longer assailed an ape’s ears. Could it be, as his father had foretold, the years of the sun? The constant drip, drip of water from the entrance of the cave his father had sealed in his last moments was gone, replaced by something strange, something bright-- a miniscule beam of yellow light, something foreign for so long to the Ape Prince. He glanced around, positioning himself so as to see out of the tiny crack. He was blinded by the brightness for several minutes, snorting and squinting so as to see what’s outside. All he saw was blue-- but not the blue of water, but lighter, like the sky.
Looking around in the near-darkness of the cave, where his family was huddled, cooing as they subsisted on the mosses and insects populating this underground world. The only imperative ever imposed on the Pictus Kong of Skull Island was to control the entrance of this subterranean recess that housed many of the different faunae on Skull Island, to make sure no one tried to move the rock out of the way until such a time as the sun reappeared.
Now it had finally emerged. It was Pictus Kong’s job to move the rock-- a ceremony that went to the ruler of the gorillas.
Pictus dug his fingers into the holds in the rock chiseled centuries ago. He strained, veins bulging in his face and tendons straining in his neck. Slowly, the rock shook and began to slide away from the entrance. Pictus had to grip the floor of the cave, roaring as he picked up the rock that was nearly his size, to hurl the rock away and into the receding waters. He glanced around, finding rotting trees, seaweed, and sand populating the area around the entrance.
The island had been underwater for thirty-seven years. Pictus’s life was just beginning, and as his lungs breathed their first breath of fresh air in years. He climbed to the top of the nearest dune of sand, still wet from the draining of the water, to gaze over his new dominion. Seawater hadn’t finished draining off the island, but he didn’t need the water to recede any more than it had to view the other islands off the shore.
Giant landmasses to the west and as Pictus turned, the south. A mile or more of water separated Skull Island from what would later be known as Las Cinco Muertes: The Five Deaths.
***
18 February 2003
“Wayne! Bruce Wayne! This is an outrage! Castle Wyvern was meant to sit atop the Eyrie building! How did you even… move it?”
Bruce turned in his chair, glancing around the room at the one-way mirror walls of his office, and rested his gaze on David Xanatos’s face. Bruce was silent for a moment, then stood. “It was in the contract, David. If you’d bothered to read it three years ago, you’d have seen the stipulation for your products being tested in the facilities I provided. In fact, I have a copy of the contract given to you here, in my desk.” I have copies of every contract I gave out, including the ones not at the meeting. “And here in my ledger are the expenses of the moving team whom disassembled Castle Wyvern and rebuilt it within the confines of the force field. I’m afraid it’s long gone from the top of the Eyrie building. The contract you signed explicitly states that Castle Wyvern must stay where I have placed it until such a point as the program becomes inactive. I apologize if you didn’t read the contract through thoroughly enough, but there’s nothing to be done now.”
Xanatos clenched his teeth and his fists, pacing the room for a moment. “Are there any ways to void the contract?”
Bruce smiled coldly. “No.”
Xanatos curled his lips into a scowl. Then perhaps I’ll have to make my own rules.
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 11, 2015 22:14:21 GMT
Chapter Ten: Takeoff
19 May 2003
The blades of lightning striking from the sky were the only sources of illumination for the gargoyles atop Castle Wyvern.
“We definitely can’t get through the force field,” Lexington reported. “From what I’ve seen, it can’t be broken.”
“If you deem it so,” Goliath replied forlornly, glancing up and down the street in the pouring rain. He could see groups of men who could only be prisoners, based on the numbers printed across their back. It’d been over three months since he last saw Elisa. From what he’d seen of the steady trickle of prisoners being introduced to this new sub-city, there was only a way in, and once you were in, there was no way out. Then again, he hadn’t finished his circuit of the shield.
I can see only darkness in the days to come. Most of our clan is here, but our Steel Clan comrades are not… and neither is Elisa. Only those who are subject to the Stone Sleep have been brought here… but why?
Goliath leapt from the castle, across the street to a taller apartment complex so that he could take off. He dug his clawed fingers into the side of the building, scaling it easily. As he reached the top, he leaped to the roof with a colossal pull of his massive arms.
When he got to the roof, however, he noticed something-- evidence, perhaps, of recent activity?
Scorch marks adorned the roof of this building. He looked around. It was the tallest structure for a few miles around. It provided a good vantage point for anyone who was looking out for trouble… or for it.
The deep pools of his eyes reflected the dark portion of the city that was the Tri-Gotham Area: Bludhaven-Gotham-Manhattan, as it was called. In its center was a camp of some kind-- Goliath had never bothered to learn its name as it had never been important. Now he saw a pattern in the scorches-- they all appeared to be on the side of the building facing the lake he saw in the distance. Could it be whoever was using this place as a lookout point was watching for something from there?
A flash of light from behind Goliath got his attention. He turned to find… a ninja? Katana might be pleased… if he turned out to be non-hostile. Then he remembered a fairly recent conversation about how she preferred samurai to ninjas as the Ishimura clan taught bushido.
“A demon? Here?” pondered the ninja aloud. “How did you escape Netherrealm?”
“I am no demon,” Goliath replied calmly. “I am a gargoyle.” He’d unfold his wings from his back, if only to stretch them that he might hook his thumbs together so they’d form something of a cloak. “Where is this Netherrealm you speak of?”
“No matter. If you aren’t a demon, you have no business with me. You must leave this place. This is where I must watch for him. The pin-headed man. And also where I must watch for the sorcerer, Quan Chi.”
“I need this building to take off from. Otherwise I will not be able to find a way back to my clanmates.” And Elisa. “Either cooperate or don’t; it makes no difference to me.” Goliath unclasped the thumbs on his wings and crossed his arms menacingly.
The revenant Scorpion’s eyes narrowed, their completely white surfaces impassive. “Your arrogance will cost you, gargoyle.”
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 18, 2015 11:13:06 GMT
Sorry about the week-long delay to any of you who are actually reading this. I wanted to let Ruinus's new fic get some time on the homepage.
Chapters Eleven and Twelve: Coming to America and Descension
25 May 2003
America.
This continent didn’t even exist to me when I first began my slumber, noted the first werewolf. William Corvinus’s newfound lucidity was being spent pondering the changes the world had undertaken since 1202, the year he’d finally been caught after evading his brother and the Death Dealers for six hundred years.
Marcus. His brother’s name brought many memories to mind-- when they were young, before William was bitten and his only motive became instinct and his only incentive became blood.
Stowing away on the boat to America after escaping the Death Dealers and the hybrid back in Europe was a week-long wait, but it was a mere moment compared to the lifetimes spent in that cell. No, not a cell. A crypt. There were no other words apt to describe the eternity he’d spent hibernating in that dank cell.
The strangest thing William had seen since his arrival in America was a blue wall that curiously hadn’t provided any resistance when he tried to run through it. After this discovery he’d simply moved on.
William clung to a great pine tree in the wood of the Tri-Gotham Area, his claws easily finding purchase in the bark. It was then he recollected the origin of his sapience… his brother Marcus was to thank for that. Marcus introduced him to a new, better-adapted Corvinus Strain, one that would be more resilient, counteracting the rabies that had driven William to ferality. For the first time in fourteen hundred years, William could think for himself.
And now he thought he was hungry. His days of slavering at the mere passing thought of food were over… now it was in abundance. Such was evident as he happened upon the light of a fire. Three men encircled it, but something smelled odd… metallic. Inhuman. He didn’t know which one it was, but as his stomach growled nearly as fiercely as William could, he ignored it for now.
Words of a language he didn’t understand assailed his ears, and as soon as they stopped, he flew from his position to behind the smallest one. He smelled of grease and burnt things. He heard a scream before his jaws closed around its neck. He shook his head back and forth, completely destroying the vertebrae and brain stem, and began to feast, paying no heed to the weaponless humans before him. The blood had only begun to quench his thirst, his rediscovered love of flesh.
Feeding on this man was not enough… but he needed a pack. A group with whom he may hunt. While deep in this thought, he felt something connect with his face with force unexpected from a human. William was knocked away from his prey, snarling.
“Get the fuck out of here, you fucking mutt,” said the human standing in front of him. It was standing aggressively, fists clenched. This one smelled distinctly of metal, but as far as he could tell, it was human. William circled it and its beefy companion, who reeked of fear. No, not just fear… terror. The one who spoke to him before pulled a fist back as if to hit him again. William merely chuckled. He wouldn’t be killed by a human, not after fourteen hundred years of longevity.
William grinned as he spotted an opening, then dashed with inhuman speed into the man. It seemed surprised by his quickness, given he also outweighed it by several hundred pounds. William went to work, tearing away at its skin to reveal the… metal beneath. He growled, confused by the product of this new world, this foreign place. He’d had enough. It was time the world was dark once more; not filled with luster and shine like the inside of this thing. It still bled, but not the right blood. He took a hold of its arms and ripped them off, howling. It seemed confused at this turn of events.
“What?”
William tore at its face, ripping the flesh away from a metal skeleton. Glowing red eyes glared back up at him until the point that he gripped the shining cranium with both hands and tore it from its torso. He was only satisfied after the lights in its eyes faded and died.
William was poised across the dying fire of the camp from the remaining man. Already the corpse of the man William previously mangled was beginning to rise, fur sprouting from places where once the skin was shaved bare. He took an aggressive step forward and howled to the moon, his white fur caked in blood both real and synthetic.
These woods will belong to the wolves.
***
9 June 2003
Lucifer’s fingers drummed a curious beat on the end of the armrest of his throne-- a black monstrosity of a chair, situated in the middle of a room medievally-decorated and made from blood-red bricks the size of houses. The space was adorned with skulls and other skeletal paraphernalia, things that greatly amused the fallen angel.
“We cannot afford to continue fighting wars on two fronts,” noted Azazel, his advisor. “The Leviathan’s Cenobites are too powerful, and the Gargoyles repel each of our attempts on Leonore. We must choose whether to devote our demonpower to the Leviathan or Leonore. We cannot sustain both.”
“Don’t tell me what I must do,” Lucifer replied simply, “and we will sustain both. Soon we will have enough vessels on Earth that--”
“And what will that do to the number of warriors we have down here?” Azazel interrupted, “One drains from the other; unless you intend on losing one to win the other, or somehow create more demons, we don’t have enough.”
“Where is the warlord Viktor?” Lucifer wondered aloud, ignoring what Azazel had said and moving on to a new topic. “I recall him earning time in the Abyss with me sometime during the fifth century.”
Azazel didn’t miss a beat. “He was killed very recently. Do you wish for him to be summoned?”
“Yes.”
Viktor was brought into the room in chains; not that they were needed. His pale skin was stretched over a frail frame, his face looked as though it were merely a skull, and his arms were as thin as sticks. He looked as though a breeze might blow him over. Luckily, Hell hath no breezes like the overworld.
“Viktor!” Lucifer grinned amicably. “So nice to see you finally showed up.”
“Lucifer,” Viktor growled, spitting out the name like a vile drink. “Come to offer me a deal? A Faustian Bargain, perhaps? Like you did my nephew Vladislaus, that mockery of a vampire?”
“Viktor, in case you hadn’t noticed,” the Lord of the Underworld said, picking himself up from his lazy position sitting on the throne to swagger over to Viktor, “you’re already dead. You are also no Faust.”
“Then what do you want?” Viktor asked, his watery black eyes following Lucifer as he paced.
“The question isn’t what I want; it’s what you want: To return to the overworld and exact revenge on your… whatever you call it. Coven? Coven. Or that minx you’ve kept out of my hands for six hundred years. Selene, if I recall correctly. She reminds me so much of Sonja…”
“Say nothing about my daughter, you wretch,” Viktor said, baring his fangs, though it appeared difficult for him to do so.
“Chill out Viktor, it’s been six hundred years! It’s 2003. Lighten the Hell up.” Lucifer chuckled and the flames from outside the keep grew brighter. “No, you see, I’m here to offer you an opportunity: Become the Prince of Hell, Naberius. A façade, yes, but all you’d have to do to be free with your power is one thing: Destroy the Gargoyle Order. Their numbers are so few now that they should be easy pickings. And… I’d return you to your previous state. Viktor slash Naberius, Prince of Hell slash Elder Vampire. I can see it now.” He looked down at Viktor curiously. “Can you?”
It took what seemed to be enormous effort for Viktor to agree with a nod. “I can.”
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Post by corvette1710 on Jun 27, 2015 1:20:42 GMT
Chapters Thirteen, Fourteen, and Fifteen: Abduction, Departure, and Tailing
30 June 2003
“Jarvis, what are the gen pop death stats in the Gunnison Hotspot? How are the drones working?” Tony asked this then bit into an apple, rolling from one screen to the next.
“Based on the data collected by the fields, forty have died due to gang violence. No more deaths to report,” Jarvis replied, showing the statistics on the screen in front of Tony.
Stark frowned. “Didn’t we separate the big players?-- Two-Face, Penguin, and the newest one-- Joker? The ones who always start their own gangs?”
“Yes, sir, but it seems you and Master Wayne--”
“Did he reprogram you so you’d say that? What an asshole. He has a butler to call him that. Why don’t you call me Master Stark?”
“Yes, and because I tend merely to refer to you as ‘Sir,’” Jarvis replied coolly. “Returning to subject, forty deaths is the total casualty count in the Gunnison County Hotspot. You are correct in that the major crime leaders were separated from each other and the teleporters temporarily disabled so they would have no contact with each other, but I’m afraid Gotham’s underground simply has too many names for us to spread them among only four Hotspots with no violence. Perhaps you should talk to Master Wayne about engaging world governments with requests for permission to build more of them? However, I advise this wait until the efficacy of the Hotspots program is proven.” Jarvis paused. “And… you must also remember that this is a prison you’re building. An over-the-top, high-tech prison, but a prison nonetheless.”
“Jarvis?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call Bruce. Tell him I want more Hotspots.”
*****
“I’d love to get more Hotspots up and running, but we haven’t proven how effective they are yet,” Bruce said with a shrug as he looked at the statistics on the Batcomputer.
“That’s what Jarvis said. But… fact is, Gotham’s got too many villains-- crime lords. People who kill without a thought. People who start their own gangs. If this is going to work, we’ve got to find a way to separate them.”
“Well--”
The call cut off.
“Mr. Stark.”
Tony turned to see a man in a long black trench coat, his blond hair slicked back and his face adorned with sunglasses.
“Sunglasses? At night?”
“Forgive me,” replied the man, taking off his sunglasses to reveal eyes that glowed red. He tossed the sunglasses to Tony, who caught them, only to find the man had teleported to him, throwing Tony through the computer. The glass shattered, and Tony looked helplessly at the Iron Man suit on the wall. I’ve gotta fix that.
Replacing his sunglasses, the man bent down and wrapped his fingers around Tony’s throat, lifting him so his feet dangled a foot above the floor. Then the man put his fingers to his ear. “Wesker to base; I’ve secured Stark.”
Wesker looked Tony in the eyes for a moment, then grinned a cold, dead grin. “Time to taste the inside of one of your Hotspots. No dress code, so you can leave your suit here.”
Wesker pulled back a fist, and it was the last thing Tony saw.
***
1 July 2003
The jungles of these islands reminded him of the island of Peña Duro. He rubbed the places on his skin where the tubes had once connected. They were healing, but without Venom he felt weaker; however, Bane knew it wasn’t Venom that made him strong. He’d taken control of the teleporters. Once they were operational, he’d monitor all immigrants and emigrants.
Bane sat back in a lab chair on Isla Sorna, his fingers nimbly darting around the inside of the computer shell, trying to get them back online. “Truly, this system is a modern marvel. It’s a wonder it hasn’t fossilized,” he muttered.
“Bane! Bane!” The voice came from one of his subordinates.
Bane took his hands out of the computer and looked up.
“It’s the teleporters-- they’ve come online!”
Excelente. “Guard them. Make sure no one gets in or out without my knowing about it.”
“Si don.”
Bane motioned for the man to leave, then returned to the computer… but he heard something. Clicks on the floor of the building, getting closer. He looked up to find himself looking into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer: devoid of emotion, and for a moment Bane marveled at its efficiency.
It jumped over the computer with intent to tear Bane open from shoulder to hip. He dodged out of the way, grabbing its arm and snapping it above the elbow. It shrieked, as if calling for help. Then it ran off. Bane followed, past a trail of his eviscerated henchmen.
Are any of them left? he wondered. No matter. I must return to Gotham for the Batman. He’d lost the trail of the dinosaur, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to be his problem for long.
Bane entered the teleportation facility, closing the door firmly behind him. As he began to walk toward the Arkham teleportation station, he heard the door handle clicking.
He frowned without turning, calibrating the teleporter from the command center that controlled them all. They turned on simultaneously, rings of light arcing up and down in all four. He heard the door click open behind him and dove over the command center into the teleporter marked Gotham. The raptor followed almost immediately after.
Bane landed with just enough time to turn and administer a powerful roundhouse kick to launch the velociraptor away, into the teleporter marked Raccoon City. Then, in a flash of light, his locale changed to a facility that looked exactly the same inside, but outside the light was different, not quite so bright. He stood tentatively. The room appeared empty, but one could never know.
He growled, making his way up the stairs and out of the building. It was mid-summer here just as it was on the Archipelago Muertes, but it was easily twenty degrees cooler.
He’d have to find out more about the dinosaurs on that island after he finished breaking the Bat.
***
28 May 2003
Gabriel’s trench coat flapped in the wind. He was late. He’d been tracking this thing since it escaped in Europe. This was different from the werewolves he’d had experience with.
He’d also seen evidence of gargoyles in the northern part of this dome. Not sons of Michael-- Britannian variety. More animalistic. More ancient. Britannic gargoyles were savages from an older time.
Shame he wasn’t hunting them now. He was after the werewolf. The original of the Western-Hungarian variety. William. He was not so easy to kill as the Eastern-Hungarians-- with them, at least, silver was a weakness. In his experience with William, silver bullets hadn’t even slowed him. He’d only gotten angrier.
Van Helsing fondled the glass of werewolf venom in his pocket. He doubted he’d run into any more vampires of Dracula’s particular breed-- not everyone can make Faustian deals. If he needed it, though, it would augment his strength to something far beyond human-- nearly to that of a werewolf. He’d never let it get so far, though, as to turn him into a full-blooded werewolf.
All the same, it was better to be prepared. With gargoyles and werewolves already running amok, it wasn’t a stretch to prepare for vampires, and even if they weren’t Vlad’s ilk, having the werewolf venom handy would provide for a good field test to this… older version of the vampire. At least, he thought it was older. Legend told of a man named Marcus who was bitten by a bat, and thus became the first vampire nearly a half-millennium before Vlad.
And… his brother William, who was bitten by a wolf and became the first werewolf… only to never become William again. He was forever a beast, nevermore a man.
Van Helsing was sure that he’d prefer death to eternal servitude to instinct.
Three days was a big lead for the creature to have. Pity that the ring was so small. This hunt would only last until tonight, if he was lucky.
Footprints in the dirt of the woods in the middle of these three metropolitan strongholds were shaped like wolves’. He crouched, then stopped as he smelled something. A body? No. But it definitely smelled similar to blood. It smelled like metal, and additionally, as he got closer to the source, like oil.
What he came upon was a curious site: a robotic skull, its dead, dull eye sockets staring at him from the ground, and the body of a man, the head torn off. He looked closer and saw that beneath a layer of skin was the interior of this thing’s body-- a mess of wires and metal that seemed random to the centuries-old hunter of the occult. He’d report it to the Vatican when he returned, but at the moment, he had to track William. Signs of a struggle littered what he now saw was briefly a campsite, a small pile of wet ashes. He saw marks denoting the bodies of two men other than… whatever this was, but they weren’t there anymore.
He crouched low to study further, noting tracks that were smaller than William’s were leading from the indents in the ground to follow their leaders.
If William were to start his own pack in a place as confined as this… God only knows how long it would take for everyone to become infected.
It had been raining since he arrived in America.
Perhaps it was a sign of things to come.
***
19 May 2003
Scorpion’s knuckles bled because of how long he’d been punching the stone-like skin of the gargoyle. All the same, he growled, returning to a ready fighting stance as the beast stood tall once more. Both could certainly take their share of punishment.
Scorpion ran forward, only to teleport at the last second to kick the thing in the back of the head, but it had learned.
“Enough!” it roared, turning and catching his foot to pull him closer, its mammoth hand easily encircling his neck. He struggled, but it was clearly a foregone conclusion that whatever it wanted to do now that he was trapped in its grip, he was going to do.
“What is your name, that I may have revenge?!” Scorpion snarled, his eyes glowing white.
“I am Goliath, leader of the Manhattan Clan of gargoyles; and you, will have nothing!” Goliath growled, gripping the revenant tighter around the neck and launching both of them off the roof of the building with a leap.
They plummeted together, Goliath holding his wings against his body so as to streamline himself so they’d hit the ground faster. He’d easily survive a fall from this height as he’d done it before, but he was counting on Scorpion being unable to.
Scorpion fought against his grip and as they were about to hit asphalt, kicked Goliath in the ribs. He cried out and they flipped, Scorpion wrenching himself free of Goliath’s grip and gasping for air. The gargoyle tried to spread his wings and stop the fall, but it was too late.
They collided heavily with the ground, Goliath grunting as he felt the impact. The road was marred by their landing, a small crater in the shape of Goliath’s back. He tried to rise, but Scorpion kicked the gargoyle in the jaw, knocking him out.
“Arrogant but undeserving,” Scorpion decided, his face still tinged with blue from his near suffocation.
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Post by corvette1710 on Jul 10, 2015 3:59:18 GMT
As you might be able to tell, I switched from Google Docs to Microsoft Word to write this story. As a result there will be no more double hyphens. Only dashes. Sorry for not posting on this for a while (to anyone who actually reads this), but I'm not too far ahead of this currently in my writing. Delays are inevitable in this such circumstance, heh. Hope you enjoy.
2 July 2003
Slade Wilson rubbed the trigger of his rifle, his one eye narrowing as he watched the van ambling up the backwoods path up the mountain that wound toward the small town of Gunnison, Colorado. What Bruce Wayne had found so important about putting a Hotspot on this town, Deathstroke might never know, but as of now, it was where Tony Stark was headed in captivity.
He was tracking it now, and he lined up the crosshairs of his rifle with the underside of the car that was just visible between the wheel and the wheel guard.
With a soft click, the tracking device was firmly planted discreetly where he’d aimed, and he smirked beneath his mask.
“Now,” he said, grinning inwardly as he began to pick up his equipment, “let our game begin, Mr. Wesker.”
*****
4 July 2003
Two days. Two days Wesker had taken to get Stark to Gunnison. One day to get from Malibu across the Rockies, and one to get from there to Gunnison, the nearest Hotspot.
He’d never been at the wheel. No, he’d been grilling Tony Stark for days about the weaknesses of the Hotspots force fields.
“Energy repulsion field,” Stark would correct every goddamn time. His lip was cut and his nose was bleeding, and bruises covered his face, but his eyes still shone with defiance.
“Called so because they repulse energy,” Wesker said, rolling his eyes. “No, I don’t care what they can repulse. What I want to know is summed up handily as three things: How do I make my own, how do I break the ones already in place, and how do you think you’ll be getting out of this—by your good looks?” he sneered.
“No, but there are other ways I could get out,” Stark said with a shrug. “I could… outwit you. I could overpower you.” This earned a mirthful chuckle from Wesker. “I could… hire a guy preemptively because I knew someone like you would be stupid enough to try this.” With this last suggestion, Wesker’s chuckle died out and his eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
“You probably wouldn’t know him. He’s a little… out of your league.”
Wesker delivered a punch that cracked Stark’s cheekbone, grabbing the chained man by the collar and lifting him up to eye level.
“His name is Deathstroke.”
*****
“Deathstroke?” Slade heard Wesker’s voice in his earpiece as the car he drove tailed the van. The blue light of the repulsion wall was quickly approaching, and it was only a matter of seconds before the driver got suspicious of someone following them on a direct path into the fourth-worst hell on Earth, after the other Hotspots.
Pieces of news Deathstroke had heard about this particular Hotspot were few and far in between—sometimes months would go by without any information escaping. Hence he only knew this: Gunnison was tamer than the other Hotspots; its inhabitants, more civilized. If tales were to be believed, this was where the Penguin was kept. It seemed he was the only one there whom had his own gang almost every time he was indicted, directly after conviction.
Slade rear-ended the van just as it was crossing the force field. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt the charge, the hum of electricity vibrating all around him, for a millisecond. He removed the windshield with a stab of his staff, flying through it upon impact.
The back doors of the van crumpled under his boot and he was inside. Stark was on the wall and before Slade was Wesker: a tall man, perpetually swathed in a long, black leather coat, his blonde hair slicked back against his head, and his eyes glowing red, burning like suns under the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
His sneer was broken by the crunch of metal on bone, Deathstroke’s staff slamming into his face. Slade grabbed Tony’s arm-shackles and ripped him from his seat along the outer wall of the van, flinging him out the back and diving after him.
Flying through the air, he felt a tight grip around his boot. He stopped midair and found himself being dragged back into the van. Wesker was dragging him back.
He was flung by his ankle through the wall separating the cab and the cargo, knocking the driver unconscious. Slade was thrown against the door as the van careened off the road, crashing a moment later into the side of what appeared to be a bank as he looked around, the door he’d been leaning on swinging on a hinge from the totaled van.
He’d barely looked up when he saw a fist heading for his face. He brought up a hand of his own to catch it, pivoting and throwing Wesker against the wall. He rushed forward immediately, a knee catching the man in his gut. He heard a grunt, and he was on the offensive, his fists becoming a rapidfire mechanism for Wesker’s destruction. With the blond man pinned to the wall with Deathstroke’s knee, he wasn’t getting away. The only problem seemed to be that Wesker was beginning to fight back, catching Deathstroke’s fists and returning with his own punches that rattled the Terminator.
“You won’t take Stark from me,” Wesker growled, finding an opening and spin-kicking Slade away from him. “He’s far too integral to my plan; too essential.”
“Come now,” Slade replied, cracking his neck loudly with a twist of his head, “you wouldn’t tease me with so little information.” He considered reaching for his staff, only to recall it would be missing. It’s still in the van. He’ll beat me to it if I give any indication I want to reach it. Instead, Wilson pulled his Desert Eagle from his backside belt holster, quick-drawing and firing it at Wesker thrice in quick succession.
Wesker outright dodged the bullets, removing his own handgun from the holster at his hip and aiming it at Slade’s head as he teleported closer and closer.
Wesker’s fire put Slade under duress and as a result Deathstroke rolled away from the shaded man, extending one leg and launching himself using the other at Wesker for a high-powered kick to the jaw.
Wesker didn’t expect this and the kick connected, sending the mutated man sprawling, his jaw broken for a moment. His mouth hung agape as he righted himself, and Slade could hear the tendons he’d snapped, the muscles he’d ripped, and the bones he’d broken reconnecting and healing even as Wesker stood, finally fully healed as his expression turned to a scowl, staring menacingly over his sunglasses at Deathstroke.
*****
This will certainly take all day if I don’t end it, Wesker thought, trying to find a weak spot in Deathstroke’s protective equipment. He noticed Deathstroke’s staff was no longer on his person—most likely still in the van. He noticed the two swords on Deathstroke’s back that he’d yet to use. Sidearms adorned his belt and a bandolier hung about his shoulders, with bullets the size of his thumb. What he had on him that used that caliber of bullet was beyond Wesker.
He clenched his fist, preparing for a flash-step punch that he estimated would knock the assassin’s mask off, only to find his opponent prepared for the move. Deathstroke stepped inside Wesker’s guard, grabbing Wesker’s wrist in an iron grip. He pulled a tactical knife from his belt and used his other hand to stab it into Wesker’s stomach, pivoting and wrenching it upwards—Wesker’s intestines spilled onto the floor and he cried out in pain; however, Slade wasn’t finished. He ripped the knife from Wesker’s stomach and would’ve stabbed through his temple if not for Wesker’s other arm blocking him as his quarry turned and threw Slade against the wall.
Wesker was fueled by rage at this point, his movements incredibly fast but now also erratic and overly simplistic as well as direct. His guts trailed behind him as he flash-stepped to Deathstroke’s horizontally prone position on the wall, snarling as he took the knife from Deathstroke’s grip, murder filling his eyes. He pinned Deathstroke to the wall with his knee, sliding down so as to have a more stable base as he ripped the armor away, exposing Deathstroke’s neck. He dragged the knife across it, the wound unveiling after the knife’s contact like a horrible red smile. Slade choked on his own blood, gurgling for a moment when he tried to speak.
Wesker’s smile was murderous and sadistic, a vile white crescent that would’ve terrified any other man.
But not the Terminator.
*****
Slade’s eye remained defiant and cold, calculating even, during his next few moments. In one swift movement, he’d removed one of the Promethium ninjatos from his back, using it to hack at Wesker’s thigh. He could feel the resistance of Wesker’s skin against his blade, but in a single chop he was definitely cutting into muscle. Slade felt his neck wound closing, though as of yet he still couldn’t speak. Wesker backed away, the ninjato still buried in his leg. He pulled it out and examined it a moment before tossing it away.
He’s still holding the knife, Slade noted, drawing his other sword. The world seemed frozen as he calculated his final attack.
A slash was parried by Wesker’s knife-wielding hand, but Slade was only beginning. Once he was deflected, he stepped in closer, spinning with a low hard kick to Wesker’s knee to break it. Wesker dropped, grimacing as he looked up at Deathstroke only to find a stab incoming for his head. He tried to bring up his knife-wielding hand to block it, but the sword was too quick and thus it pierced Wesker’s temple.
Wesker toppled, the sword still in his head. His eyes were open but no longer glowing and his sunglasses were crooked.
Slade smirked beneath his mask, pulling the sword from Wesker’s temple and the knife from Wesker’s grip.
After recovering his other weapons from the edge of the room and the van, he looked back at Wesker’s corpse.
But it was gone.
“Infuriating,” he said, scanning around with his eye to try to find Wesker lurking around somewhere. Finding nothing, he noted Wesker would definitely be a problem in times to come.
Now, to find Stark. He’s smart enough not to have run off.
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Post by corvette1710 on Dec 27, 2015 5:31:41 GMT
29 May 2003
Brief encounters with those the Priest called the Cenobites were all that were needed to make Jason fear them. His steps led out from the forests surrounding Camp Crystal Lake, into a place he remembered well: Manhattan. But it had changed. More than a decade of progress marred the city in the drowned boy’s memories.
Something else he had noticed: the streets were abandoned. Not a soul loitered on the sidewalk in the wee hours of morn. His machete gripped tight in a gargantuan fist, he wandered down the deserted streets. Apartments lined the roads, windows cracked and broken after only months of isolation.
His simple mind worked this over. Abandoned and lifeless, yet windows were broken? It didn’t make sense.
“Jason…”
He turned, craning his neck so he could see the speaker. Standing under a streetlight was his mother, a short woman with short hair, but with dedicated eyes; dedicated to him, he could feel in his dilapidated, rotting heart. He cocked his head, his remaining eye filled with wonder… and disbelief.
“It’s your mother. Listen to me. Are you going to run forever, or are you going to break free? Tell me that isn’t who you have become.”
Jason shook his head slowly, then nodded in understanding. He knew what he had to do. If he was going to get rid of the Cenobites that chased him endlessly, he would have to face them down.
Seemingly as a result of him making this decision, he noticed something—a chattering sound echoing from the alley nearest him. He recognized the sound and was taken aback, trying to figure out if they’d laid a trap for him or if they’d simply finally caught up.
Months of running was soon to come to an end. Jason needed to face down these demons or they would eventually consume him.
*****
Such were the ways of the Cenobites. They’d assumed since Jason was a lumbering brute he’d be the simplest prey; the easiest catch. Mist followed him, making him easy to track, yes, but he simply wouldn’t be put down. Whenever they seemed close, he’d reappear elsewhere; nearby but just out of their grasp.
Now they would have his soul.
The Chatterer exited the alleyway so as to confront Jason. His teeth clicked rapidly together, advancing on Jason slowly.
This was not the only one, not the only hell-dwelling maimed man to track him.
“Jason Voorhees.”
This address was issued by a being Jason knew perhaps all too well. The Priest now glared at him through his pitch-black eyes, his lip curled in disgust.
“You can’t outrun me now. You belong in hell. Your post-mortem welcome has run out and now your soul must pay the price of your pitiable drive for revenge.”
Jason stood his ground as the Priest drew nearer, clutching his machete like a lifeline.
The Priest walked far too close to Jason, and while the latter towered over him, the Priest’s pure presence was enough to intimidate Jason, especially after the horrendous things he’d done to Jason’s soul.
Jason raised his machete so as to strike the Priest, but in an instant his wrist was impaled with a hook, keeping it firmly in place even as he strained against it, the length of the chain rattling and groaning with his effort.
Even without his weapon, Jason was far from powerless, and his free arm darted forward and fully encircled the Priest’s neck. From all around him he could see lightning flashes, which he knew to be the coming of more Cenobites. This was his only chance.
He tightened his grip on his tormentor, murder in his eye as he started crushing the smaller man’s throat in his grip.
Hooks dug into his arm, but he couldn’t care less, resisting their pull long enough that he heard something snap inside the Priest’s neck and saw the fear in his eyes—the fear for his life. Jason didn’t know if they could even die, like him. But what was important was that his captor knew his strength—what Jason could do to him if he got loose.
When he got loose.
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Post by corvette1710 on Jul 5, 2016 6:29:22 GMT
17 March 2003 – Commissioner James Gordon
An army of folding chairs were the seats of several news teams, each attending the GCPD Policing Conference, a meeting between the police precinct nearest the new Hotspot and the press that would tell the world who was going to be sent in to bring the law to the TGA Hotspot.
Commissioner Gordon stood at the podium, his mouth sporting something strangely uncommon for Gordon: a smile. He’d ended a majority of police corruption in the GCPD, and now he was going to meet possibly the greatest policeman of his time.
“Would you all welcome to the stage Officer Alex Murphy, the Robocop. He will be deployed to the Hotspot that just went up so he can lay down the law!” he announced as he backed away from the podium, clapping. From his left came a man that looked more machine than man.
Robocop worked purposefully toward the microphone. “Such ceremony is hardly necessary,” he began, looking over the audience assembled, “but I nonetheless find it endearing that so many want to congratulate me for merely doing my job.” He finished this statement with a small smile, a sign of goodwill to America. “Redeployment is nothing new—after all, there isn’t much left for me to do in my hometown. Truth be told, it is an honor for me to be selected to bring the law to the worst scum this country has to offer.”
He paused, scanning the crowd for a moment. No perps, as expected, but one can never be egregiously careful in his line of work. “I will now take any questions for me you may have,” he said, then gestured to Commissioner Gordon, “and I assume he will take any you have as well.”
Gordon looked a bit surprised for a moment only to take it in stride, nodding and smiling. “Of course.”
The two both stood at the various microphones lining the outer edge of the podium. Murphy stood at ease, with more than fifteen years of policing as a cyborg and public spectacle under his belt, while Gordon was only just nearing four months in his new position after the death of Commissioner Loeb.
“Well, my question is for Officer Murphy, in the vein of human rights.” This statement came from a blonde reporter Gordon recalled as being Vicki Vale.
Murphy nodded and gestured for her to continue.
“Are your methods of policing in the Hotspot going to be nonlethal?” she asked, holding the microphone in her hand tightly.
“If at all possible, ma’am. Otherwise I will still be carrying my Auto-9.”
“And your personal views on criminals—and I quote, ‘creeps,’—what of those?”
“My views on these criminals—indeed, creeps—will have no effect on my policing. You seem to forget I am programmed to police in the most efficient way possible—my emotions can be surrendered in the pursuit of a perp so that in any way he has harmed me, it will not affect my judgment —except that I may feel more satisfaction when I apprehend him.”
“Commissioner Gordon,” rang out a voice from the crowd, one that Gordon had trouble locating.
“Uh, yes?” Jim squinted, trying to find the speaker.
“What are your thoughts on sending an officer from a different city to do your boys’ job?”
Jim still couldn’t identify the speaker for sure. “This might be news to you, but police forces tend to work collaboratively.” Minus warrants from out of county. “Neither I nor the GCPD bear any animosity for Officer Murphy for shouldering this burden. In fact, we have nothing but gratitude for him that he’d so willingly take this responsibility.”
“Ah. Good!”
Finally Gordon saw his querist. It was a new reporter—a tabloid writer, if he recalled correctly, named Jack Ryder.
“Who let you into this meeting?” Murphy frowned. “Tabloid articles are tertiary resources and therefore should not take primary testimony.”
“Ah, not so sure you’ve ever read a tabloid, Officer. They’re periodicals like any other, you’ll find,” Ryder corrected.
“Correct. I do not sully my world view with their content.”
“That’s a shame. Anyway, thank you for your reply, Commissioner, and for your candor, Officer Murphy.” Ryder was swallowed by the crowd of reporters saying something about “great headlines.”
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